


Painkiller

by iloveyoudie



Series: Morseverse Prompt Fills [9]
Category: Endeavour (TV), Inspector Morse (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Morse is a Mess, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 17:10:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17329094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iloveyoudie/pseuds/iloveyoudie
Summary: The sheets of the guest bedroom were too familiar by now, the unique smell of this home’s clean laundry, the firmness of the mattress, the rough of the clean bandages on his sensitive skin, and the particular firm stitching and wrapping that felt like a Debryn signature.





	Painkiller

**Author's Note:**

  * For [greenapricot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenapricot/gifts).



> This was from a tumblr prompt.  
> The Way you said "I Love You" - Muffled, from the other side of the door.

As Morse stirred from his unconsciousness he became painfully away of the throbbing discomfort beating through every inch of his body in time with his own thudding pulse. His right arm was stiff and difficult to move and it took a moment to realize that it had been bandaged heavily. He closed his eyes, body and mind weary and craving rest, but the pulsing pain had become unbearable. Everything came back in bits and pieces, getting attacked, hauling himself to the first safe space that came to mind, collapsing against Max Debryn's door loud enough to get his attention and then promptly blacking out when he felt the door open and his body rolled over onto the doctor's shoes. The last thing he remembered before darkness was the distant alarmed sound of the other man's voice and knowing that meant he was safe.

The sheets of the guest bedroom were too familiar by now, the unique smell of this home's clean laundry, the firmness of the mattress, the rough of the clean bandages on his sensitive skin, and the particular firm stitching and wrapping that felt like a Debryn signature. Morse glanced at the bedside table in the dark and already knew what he'd find, a glass of water and a few white pills surrounded by his pocket bits and bobs.

In the past he'd been blackout drunk in this bed. Once he'd been sick, a sudden flu that he hadn't taken care of. Three or four times their social evenings had simply run too long and too late and Max had put him up. The injured times, times like now, were rarer but still all too common. Morse sometimes felt like he used Max unfairly, a crutch to avoid a hospital or a hassle, and the doctor often agreed loudly and angrily. He'd berate him, rip his so-called intelligence to shreds, and all the while stitch him up or set something into place and make sure that it still hurt just enough to teach him a lesson. But never had Max turned him away or just gone ahead and driven him to A&E himself. He always, despite his righteous anger, set everything straight and let Morse stay.

Morse grunted and pushed up on his uninjured arm. He swung his legs down and hissed as the cool night air hit his bare skin. He was only in his shorts and vest and realized his lower body also ached but thankfully less than the rest of him. Morse grabbed for the pills and took them, taking care to drink the entire glass of water before his bladder complained. He painfully shuffled his way to the lavatory to take care of that problem first, then took a moment to get a good look at himself in the mirror. There was a scabbed scrape across his cheek and some swelling around his nose and eye that would be black and blue by tomorrow. His arm was bound and bandaged from the shoulder down.

Why was it always knives?

Morse drank another glass of water while he sat on the closed toilet seat and waited for the pain relievers to kick in. He wouldn't be sleeping until the ache ebbed away. Maybe Max was right, maybe he had a death wish. It was either that or he was the unluckiest man alive. This time it hadn't even been because of a case. They stuck a knife to his ribs and demanded his money and like a fool he announced himself a police officer. After discovering he had nothing but his warrant card and a tenner, they'd beaten him down. Morse's attempts to fight back were brief after the knife caught him in a slash down the arm. He remembered them running and he remembered his own spinning stomach when he caught sight of that much of his own blood.

Morse was afraid to touch and test the arm now, afraid of what sort of damage could have been done. Max would probably kill him for fiddling.

He sat with his head propped in his free hand as he waited for the ache to become less apparent. He may have even dozed like that, in the cold darkened bathroom, losing his sense of time to the significantly dulled speed of his mind. Eventually that dull spread to his limbs and Morse decided to tackle the trek back to the blissful, horizontal promise of bed. At the top of the landing he was forced to pause, his head swimming in a rush from too much quick movement, and he leaned on the top post of the banister until it cleared. He noticed Max's bedroom door cracked and, without thinking, moved closer. It would be a horrendous violation to bother the man in his sleep but he couldn't resist a sudden need to look in on him. Only when he'd got as far as to cast an eye through the crack in the door and into the dark room beyond did Morse think to stop himself. He couldn't see anything besides a slash of moonlight through the window illuminating the bedside table where Max's glasses sat folded on top of a book, but it was enough to make him freeze where he stood. What was he doing?

Morse sagged against the wall outside the door. There was only one benefit to his habitual bad luck: it brought him back here. Close to Max. Morse wasn't one for psychology but he direly hoped he wasn't subconsciously getting himself hurt on purpose, like some pathological disorder he didn't know about, one to add to his already existing wealth of them, and fueled by his desire to be close to the man that he-

"A fool with a heart and no sense is just as miserable as a fool with sense and no heart," Morse closed his eyes and whispered to himself in frustration. With a breath he finally shoved himself lightly back upright. He paused in front of the bedroom door again and daring just a moment, pressed his hand to the heavy wood panel.

"I'm sorry," He'd say it now, in the middle of the night, while the man slept and couldn't crumble him immediately with the sharpest most clever rejections he could muster. God, Max could probably break his heart and be brilliant at the same time. Morse sighed down into his chest, "I love you."

The top step on the stairwell creaked and Morse's head yanked painfully towards it. Max was standing at the top of the stairs in his dressing gown and sans-glasses, "Morse."

"Max-"

"Unhappy."

"I-"

"It's unhappy. A fool with a heart and no sense is just as _unhappy_ as a fool with sense and no heart," Max's voice was not without its edge but he was difficult to read in the darkness.

When he stepped closer and squinted faintly up at Morse, Max studied his face a moment. Morse must have looked as panicked as he felt because Max reached out and pressed a warm hand to his cheek. In only his vest and shorts he hadn't quite realized how chilly it had gotten until the warmth of Max's skin sent a shiver up his spine.

"You _are_ a fool, Morse, and a bloody disaster," Max's firm rumble was as acerbic as always but Morse felt the warmth of that hand merge with the edge of affection in Max's voice and set off a heady chain reaction of explosive feeling through every bit of him.

"Whether your heart and your sense are in alignment can wait until tomorrow," Max's hand lowered to rest on Morse's waist, steering him, but not towards the guest room. He was nudging him towards his own, "Bed. Now."

As realization dawned, Morse flushed further. The warmth that had pleasantly drowned out his aches and pains now rushed and collected into what he knew was an intense blush spreading down his head and shoulders. With a nervous swallow, Morse followed the guiding hand through the door.

In the dark Max helped him into bed and Morse noted how much more comfortable it was than the guest room. As Max moved around in the dark Morse took in the still-familiar cues, the rough tight binding of his bandages, the drug induced weight setting into his limbs, the reassuring smell of the clean sheets, and then new and thrilling additions, the weight of Max settling in next to him, the warmth of his body, the smell of him on the pillow and the feel of his hand curling around Morse's uninjured elbow in the dark.

"Max-" Morse paused when he felt the other man shift and then felt lips press against his temple. He sighed and said no more. He ought to be anxious, spinning this all over in his mind. He should be humiliated and concerned, but instead he was comfortable and patient and, in moments, fell straight to sleep.

It could wait until tomorrow.


End file.
